


Overture

by rarelypoetic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode: s08e23 Sacrifice, Gen, episode:s08e22 clip show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 14:03:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rarelypoetic/pseuds/rarelypoetic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Castiel have a conversation about closing the gates of heaven, responsibility, and forgiveness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overture

**Author's Note:**

> I'm about three months late, I know. Better late than never?

God, they’re standing on a precipice again. And it’s not like this is the first time they’ve been in this situation. This will likely not be the last decision Castiel will ever have to make that could have profound repercussions on himself and those he cares for. The difference is that this time, he comes to Dean first.

Above all, Dean is immeasurably grateful for that fact - even if he _does_ secretly (or not so secretly, really) feel a little entitled about it. Castiel, on the other hand, is just glad that he no longer runs the risk of turning Dean against him. In theory, at least. Sometimes it’s hard to tell with Dean.

"So, what’s it gonna be, Cas?"

And Castiel, God help him, can’t keep the small, nervous laugh - such a odd human nuance - from catching in the back of his throat. 

"Dean, this is not… an easy decision." What he _really_ means, Castiel knows, is _Dean, I need your guidance._ Unfortunately, pride is not a foreign concept to Castiel.

"Well," Dean says, and he gets that slight tension around his jaw that shows up whenever he’s being purposely crass or belligerent, "It’s not gonna decide itself."

Castiel takes this in for a moment. “Metatron seems to think that I owe it to Heaven to go through with the trials.”

"Screw that guy! What do _you_ think you should do?”

"I think that I should be fixing what I broke," Castiel amends quietly.

"Cas," Dean says, sounding a little close to broken himself, "Heaven was dysfunctional long before you became sheriff. It’s not all on you, man."

The room settles into a wired silence for a few moments. It seems that Dean’s comment has put Castiel even more on edge than he was before. Dean’s skin starts feeling tight, and he tugs idly at the hem of his flannel to try and remedy the phantom itch.

"I murdered my kin, Dean. This is bigger than just shifting the power balance. I am responsible for the death of thousands of angels who would not follow in my footsteps. I _killed_ Samandriel. How would you feel if you did something like that to Sam?”

“I _wouldn’t_ ," Dean barks fiercely. Castiel slumps, his strings cut, and all of the fight drains out of Dean in an instant.

"I know. But imagine being so overcome with power that your judgement was clouded - imagine starting something initially impossible and then _not being able to stop it_. There is no excuse for the atrocities that I’ve committed.”

And Jesus, what is Dean supposed to say to that? Castiel, in this moment, is more emotional than Dean has ever seen him. The line of his shoulders is as rigid and unyielding as always, but the lines of his face are creased deeply with anguish and remorse.

"We saved the world, Cas. You helped us. You may have fucked up on one front, but you did a lot of good over here." Dean speaks softly, like he’s calming a spooked horse.

"Don’t you think that’s penance enough?" he continues, desperate to find some kind of chink in Cas’s chassis -- some way to snap him back to the present reality.

Castiel, with his head bowed and his mouth a thin, trembling line, does not say a thing. Dean steps closer, breathes in, curls a hand around one of Cas’s shoulders. He’s surprisingly solid and warm under the bulky trench coat.

"I’m sorry, Cas," he murmurs, moving closer still and settling himself on the bed next to Castiel. Dean feels the warmth of the angel from two inches away and embarrassingly wants to reach out and wrap himself up in it like a blanket and revel and never have to see the light of day again. If they could build their own little world, away from the bullshit one they’ve pieced back together more than once, if they could—

Would it even be enough? Or would Castiel, like he always has, fuck off again to his real home just as Dean was getting used to having him around?

But even with that in mind, Dean cannot persecute him. Not again. Castiel has _always_ been sorry - but most importantly, he’s always come back home. To Dean. 

"Dean?" Castiel eventually says, voice much softer and more tentative than before.

"Yeah, Cas?"

"If I do it… if I close the gates of Heaven, I’ll have to go with them."

Every muscle in Dean’s body tightens like stretched elastic. For some reason, Dean had not considered this before now, even objectively. It makes him sick to his fucking stomach.

"Is that a forever kind of deal?" Dean barely gets out.

"I would likely not be able to return to Earth for several millennia, if ever," Castiel says quietly, sounding gratifyingly put off by the idea.

Dean is more than put off by it - hell, he can’t even properly fathom it. Never seeing Castiel again. It’s not like the possibility hasn’t occurred before. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time that he’d have to live with the idea. Pretty much every time Castiel disappears, it’s a goddamn possibility. But it's never been a promise before-- it's never been an absolute certainty. 

Even after the apocalypse, with Sam locked away in hell for what was supposed to be eternity, and Castiel making amends somewhere up in the clouds, there had always been that stupid, unchecked hope that maybe Cas would find a reason to come back. 

Dean feels panic build beneath his skin, itchy and hot like a rash. His brain thuds dully in his skull, trying hard to work part the suffocating haze of anxiety.

"You can’t leave," Dean says, throwing all caution to the wind, thinking _Anything. Anything I can do to make this bastard stay._

"There is no way to have both, Dean. The gates of Heaven will close and take every angel with them, or they’ll stay open and I’ll be, inevitably, hunted by Naomi and whatever other legions she may set against me."

"I don’t _care_ ," Dean says frantically, like he’s up to his neck in ice water. "We’ve fried bigger fish. We’ll take down whatever they throw at us. It’s not an option, Cas. Forget it."

Dean is going to find that fucking tablet and smash it to pieces. And then set it on fire. Maybe throw it into the sea for good measure. Fuck the word of God, for all holy intents and purposes.

"This isn’t your battle," Castiel says doggedly. His face, which had once been so young and full of faith, is creased now with burden.

"Then make it mine," Dean growls. "You think they’re gonna go any easier on you if you’re locked up there with no escape hatch? They’ll rip you to fucking shreds, Cas." 

One look at Castiel’s face tells Dean all he needs to know. Cas knows this already, and he doesn’t care. He’s even hoping for it, maybe. Probably he thinks it’ll be the best fucking poetic justice ever served. Castiel and his stupidly frustrating atonement complex. 

"Please," Dean tries, dropping all pretense of aggression. "Listen to me just this once. Sam and I, we can’t afford to lose you. Not permanently."

Dean is touching Castiel again, only this time his hand is closer to Castiel’s neck than his shoulder, and his palm is spread wide and heavy over the bare warmth of his top vertebrae. The five, searing points of contact where his fingers lie makes a stupid, reckless idea take root in Castiel’s mind. He lifts his head.

"There is-" Castiel clears his throat apprehensively, but meets Dean’s eyes with a nakedly honest gaze, "something else. But I cannot promise that it will end well for either of us."

"What?" Dean asks, not caring at this point if they’re grasping at less than straws; he just wants the easy way out, the quick fix, for once in his fucking life.

"I can rip out my grace."


End file.
